It was, in many ways, an ordinary autumn night: cool winds blowing softly, calls of night birds providing a minimalist soundtrack, light from a moon that was full just two nights back illuminating flora and fauna, city and town. And in a totally unassuming smallish brownish building, frustration was consuming a particular man.

This man, thirty or so, was at a rolltop in his study, drumming his hands against it, and said without warning, “Dammit!”

Woman, coming in from living room through an oak door joining study and living room: “What is it? You OK?”

Man: “I could do this. In my youth I could, I know it. But now…nothing.”

Woman: “Do what?”

Man: “Writing! Composition! I could do it any day, any hour. A short story this day, a LONG story that month, mayhap a ballad or cinquain if I was particularly lyrical (or just whimsical) that day. But I lost it all. I own stacks of journals, blank books, and foolscap. I bought a fancy quill and ink. My laptop has MS Word. And I sit in this study tonight, last night, all nights, to no avail.”

Woman: “I might know why.”

Man: “Oh?”

Woman: “All your options … that world of possibility … wanting to do ‘optimal’ writing, ‘Optimal’ writing is an absurd goal. You don’t want to do bad writing, not with so many good options, so you don’t start.”

Man, nodding vigorously: “Hm. Insightful. But what I want isn’t a diagnosis, it’s a solution.”

This time, a meditation on the relationship between the rational numbers and the real numbers. Sure, there are real numbers that aren’t rational, but qualitatively, does it matter? Are there geometric ramifications?